


The Sum of Our Memories

by Linelen (Linelenagain)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linelenagain/pseuds/Linelen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan's memories may not come back quite as quickly as he let the twins believe. Ford... takes it badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sum of Our Memories

In time, the sun sets. Soos spends an hour or so with the family, pouring over Mabel’s scrapbook, then quickly puts a few things to rights before heading home to check on his Abuelita.

Ford and the kids stay gathered around Stan for hours longer, talking about the summer and trying to jog Stan’s memories. They’re vague and hazy, but Stan provides just enough detail that by the time Ford gets up to see if the lights still work, both twins are smiling. 

“All right, all right, you two get to bed,” Ford says, gesturing towards the attic stairs Soos cleared out before he left. “Let Stan’s mind have a rest. We can work on helping him some more tomorrow.” 

“Don’t worry, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says, getting up from the arm of the chair. “We still have days before we go home! That’s tons of time to jog your memories.”

“Yeah, by the time we’re done, you’ll be remembering stuff you forgot you remembered!” Mabel says, leaning over to hug her uncle before hopping to her feet.

Stan grins. “I know I will! You kids are regular memory wizards! I can feel myself getting more - myself - already!”

They let out a tired cheer as they head up the stairs, and Stan watches them go, a little smile on his face. 

“You can drop the act, Stanley,” Ford sighs once the door shuts. He rubs the space above the bridge of his glasses. “I know you don’t actually remember anything.”

“Whadda ya mean?” Stan asks, jovially. “Of course I do! Waddles the pig! Soos the handyman! It’s all coming back to me!”

“That’s enough,” Ford says, sternly. “Did you think no one would notice that you ‘remembered’ those things after seeing them in the scrapbook - Mabel’s _meticulously labeled_ scrapbook? Every detail you claim to recall was accounted for there, surrounded by sparkly stickers!”

“What? No!” Stan denies, putting his hands in front of him as if he could ward off Ford’s accusations.

Ford ignores him. “All that was pretty obvious, but you want to know what really gave it away?” he continues, loud enough that Stan starts to look nervously towards the attic. “You’re a con man, Stanley. You’ve spent a lifetime selling people pleasant lies they’d like to believe, and those kids desperately want to believe you remember them. That’s not something I could erase, it’s who you are!”

Stan drops his hands to his sides, dejection falling over his features. “Don’t tell them,” he pleads, softly. “I can keep it up - it’s only a few days. Just let them be happy. Please.”

“Why do you _care_?” Ford exhales, disappointment making his words sharper than he intended. It surprises him, and upon quick reflection, he realizes he’s often sharper than he intends when he addresses his brother. He closes his eyes for a moment to compose himself, and speaks again, as calmly as he can. “You don’t know them. Why trouble yourself with whether or not they’re happy?”

Stan shakes his head. “I don’t know their names - or I didn’t; I know them now and I won’t forget. I may not have all the details. But I look at them and I just - I feel something. I’m supposed to protect them. I _care_. It’s pretty much the only thing I care about.”

“Well, that’s...that’s something, anyway. More than I’d hoped for.” Ford pauses, suddenly tentative. “Do you remember _anything?_ About the kids - or me? Do you know who I am?” 

Stan frowns. “The first thing I remember is Mabel hugging me in the woods. Other than that, it’s just... feelings. I look at the kids and I feel protective, happy. The same for the big guy, Soos. I can tell I - he - your Stan, he cared about him. Not here,” he points to his head. “But _here_ ,” he taps above his heart. 

“Fascinating,” Ford breathes out. “Some kind of cellular recall? Or - or maybe you were able to focus your mind before it was erased, hard enough that you managed to hold on to your core memories!”

“I have no idea what that means,” Stan says, flatly. “And I don’t really care, to be honest. I wouldn’t mind getting my memories back, for _them_ ,” he nods towards the stairs. “But as for me? Eh.” He shrugs. “Can’t miss what you don’t remember!” He pulls himself to his feet, wincing. “Looks like old Stan had a bad back, am I right?” He winks at Ford, then does a double-take. “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asks, frowning at the crushed expression on Ford’s face. 

“You never answered - do you remember anything about me? Anything at all?” Ford asks.

Stan looks away, frowning, and shifting his weight on his feet. “It’s - I know what the kids told me. You’re my brother, my twin. You were gone for thirty years. I did something and you came back.”

“You spent thirty years bringing me back - you worked here, turned my house into a tourist trap to pay the mortgage, did research and experiments at night - you devoted half your life to it. You must - you _must_ remember something. Do you feel anything when you look at me?”

There’s a long pause, and Ford can see the gears working in Stan’s mind, weighing whether or not he’ll be able to play off a lie, and finally deciding against it. In the end, Stan sighs. “Look, I don’t know you. But you seem like a nice enough guy, and I don’t particularlywant to upset you. So maybe... maybe don’t ask me that one.”

“I have to,” Ford says. “Stanley, I have to know.”

“Okay,” Stan says. “But don’t say I didn’t warn ya. I do feel something when I look at you, but it’s not like with the kids. I feel - I feel - scared. Like I want to get behind something, so you can’t look at me. Like - like you might hurt me! But you wouldn’t... you wouldn’t.” He looks up, finally meeting Ford’s eyes. “Somehow, I know you won’t.”

Ford doesn’t answer, just lowers himself into the old yellow chair and drops his head into his hands. 

“Hey - hey now,” Stan says, hesitantly. “Look, don’t take it so personal. It’s probably just the effects of the whatever you call it - the brain scramble!”

“It’s not,” Ford mumbles into his hands. “It’s entirely deserved, I assure you. I’ve been - I’ve been terrible. The worst! I didn’t contact you for ten years before I fell through the portal! You spent thirty years bringing me back to this dimension and the first thing I did when I got here was hit you! I _hit you_ , Stanley! And still, _still_ you tried to make things right between us. And I just wouldn’t have it. Why, Stanley? Why did I do that?”

Stan takes a hesitant step towards him, reaching out to pat him gingerly on the shoulder. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, I don’t remember any of that crap.”

“But you _do_!” Quick as lightning, Ford grabs Stan’s hand, gripping it tightly. “You do! _Here_!” He brings his fist to his chest.

Stan squeezes his hand. “Jeez, calm down, Sixer! It’s not the end of the world, is it? So I don’t remember forty odd years of crap - who cares? They sound pretty miserable anyway.”

Finally, Ford looks up. “Say that again,” he demands.

Stan shrugs. “It sounds like I’ve had a long, lonely forty years. Maybe it’s for the best I forget them.”

“Not that-” Ford says. “Before - before that. What did you call me?”

Stan frowns. “I - Sixer. I called you Sixer. Why would I...” he looks down at Ford’s hands, and breaks into a relieved grin. “Oh, gotcha. Hehe.” 

Ford stares, and the smile falls from Stan’s face. “Uh - should I not have... are they some kind of sore subject, or...?”

“ _Stanley,_ ” Ford gasps, standing up and grabbing his twin by the shoulders. “That wasn’t in the book! _That wasn’t in the book!”_

“Oh, hey!” Stan says, smiling again. “Whadda ya know! Guess those memories are rattling around in there somewhere!”

“They are! _They are!”_ Ford says, giddily. But as quickly as it appeared, his jovial mood vanishes. “Unless... I mean, you weren’t wrong, some of those memories - they aren’t the best. If you wanted, I could help you... try to keep them buried.”

“Can it, Poindexter,” Stan grins. “Those memories are mine and I want ‘em! The bitter and the sweet!”

Ford smiles, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “You have no idea, _no idea,_ how happy I am to hear you say that.

 

***

 

It doesn’t happen overnight. But it’s not a slow process, either. The twins devote themselves to reconstructing Stan’s mind with the same fervor Soos spends rebuilding the Shack. They spend their days shadowing him, pointing to people or objects and telling him stories about them, things he ought to remember. And sometimes, he does.

“Remember this, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asks, pointing to the PLEASE sticker on the cash register. “I put it there when you went on Cash Wheel!”

“I lost three hundred thousand dollars!” Stan moans, startling Dipper and Ford.

Mabel looks over the moon. “THAT’S RIGHT! Ohmigod, you remember!”

“Course I do, ya little gremlin,” Stan smiles, noogying her affectionately. “That’s the kind of thing that sticks with ya!”

“Do you remember anything else?” Dipper probes. 

Stan looks thoughtfully towards the ceiling. “Well, there is something, but... nah, it’s probably nothing.”

“No, no, tell us!” the twins say, pulling at the hem of his jacket. From his position in an unobtrusive corner, Ford watches, trying not to draw Stan’s attention and distract him from his purpose. 

Stan frowns. “I’m serious! There’s no way this could be something!”

“But what if it is! What if it is, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shrieks, tangling her hands in her hair. “We can’t risk it!”

Stan smiles, wide and smug. “You kids are right - and that must mean... I’m Stan, and I was wrong,” he sings, tunelessly, but with feeling. 

“HE’S SINGING THE STAN-WRONG SONG!” Dipper and Mabel scream in unison. 

“Hehe! How’s this for a remorseful dance, eh Pumpkin?” Stan chuckles, kicking his legs in a manner that could, in some dimensions, be called jazzily.  

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Mabel says, solemnly. 

“Me too,” Dipper nods. 

  

***

 

By the day of the party, Stan can reliably recall almost everything about the summer he’s spent with the twins. Even things that aren’t archived in Mabel’s scrapbook - Ford has checked. He’s even starting to remember some things from before the kids arrived. Most notably, when he remarks to Soos, “You’re as useless as the day I hired you!”

“You remember hiring me?” Soos asks, with stars in his eyes. 

“Sadly, yes,” Stan grumbles. “But don’t go reading into it! What else was I gonna do! You were always dragging that Abuela of yours over here, never buying any merchandise - loitering! That’s what you were doing! Hiring you was a public service! That’s all!”

“I missed you so much, Mr. Pines!” Soos wails, throwing his arms around his employer. “Never leave me again.”

“I’d fire you tomorrow if I could,” Stan says gently, wrapping an arm around Soos’s shoulder. “Wendy, too. Damn kids.”

And Ford is not jealous. It’s perfectly fine that Stan still doesn’t remember him. It’s natural. He’s spent a lot more time with the twins, with his employees. With the local townsfolk, who come by every day to check on them. It’s no surprise he remembers Susan, the waitress from the diner he frequents. Of course he remembers Toby Determined and Manly Dan. He’s spent years building relationships with these people. It’s to be expected that seeing them will jog his memories.

The goat, however, is a step too far. “Did I ever tell you kids how I got this guy?” Stan says one morning, when Gompers breaks into the kitchen and has to be lured out with Dipper’s hat. “It’s kind of a funny story. It was about ten years ago-”

And then Ford’s on his feet. “Excuse me,” he says thickly, turning and walking towards the basement as fast as he can without running. The kids call after him, but he doesn’t stop until he’s in his lab, staring at the crumpled remnants of the portal.

One piece in particular catches his eye. A metal panel, engraved with a sigil he’d discovered that was meant to provide protection from prying eyes. The same sigil that’s now branded into Stan’s shoulder. He kicks out, sending it clattering into a pile of scrap metal, but it’s not enough. He goes for his pile of tools, pulling out the biggest, heaviest hammer he can find, and brings it down once, twice, again and again on the panel, until the sigil is just a dark smear on the metal. 

Exhausted, Ford lets the hammer fall from his hands and just sits, knees to chest, and stares at the empty wall that used to hold what he thought would be his life’s work. 

“Hanging out in the dark, Sixer?” a voice calls from the doorway. “That’s healthy.”

It takes everything in Ford not to snap at Stan to go away, to leave him to his recriminations. This isn’t Stan’s fault. None of this was ever Stan’s fault. It was Ford, all Ford - his hubris and his blindness. So he makes his voice gentle as he replies to his brother. “Do you need something, Stan?”

Stanley walks over to him, gingerly stepping over the mess that litters the floor. “This place could use a little sprucing up,” he jokes, as he lowers himself to a sitting position next to Ford. “I’d ask if I made this mess, but seeing you with that hammer makes me thing you’re working through some stuff down here.”

“Very perceptive,” Ford nods. “When I originally dismantled the portal, I left a lot of the original equipment where it was - without the central power source, it was useless. But lately I’ve been venting some... frustrations.”

“I can see that,” Stan smirks. “Did it help?”

“No,” Ford says, glumly. They sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Stan says, finally. 

Ford looks at him in disbelief. “ _You’re_ sorry? Why are you sorry?”

Stan shrugs. “I know you hate it, me not remembering you. I get it. And I’m trying.”

Ford turns away, goes back to staring at the remnants of the thing that has cost him so much. “Maybe... maybe it’s better you don’t. Not many happy memories there.”

Stan looks at him. “But you want me to. You want me to remember, I can tell. It’s like you said, I’m a con man. I’ve made my living by knowing what people want.”

“And selling them something else,” Ford smiles a little, hoping he hasn’t caused offense, but Stan only laughs.

“Got that right!” he grins, elbowing Ford in the side. “But like I said, I know what you want. What I don’t know is why.”

“What do you mean?” Ford asks, genuinely puzzled. 

“Well, all you ever tell me is how bad those memories are, how much you disliked me. Why do you want me to remember you now? Isn’t it - easier for you, if I don’t?” Stan asks, sounding as confused as Ford feels.

A dozen, no, a hundred possible responses rush to the tip of Ford’s tongue, but for once, he doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at Stan, and thinks hard, because something in his rusty, ill-used heart is telling him that this moment is _important_.

“I was seventeen when Dad kicked you out. We didn’t talk after that for ten years - and that was my fault. But when I was at the end of my rope, alone in this house and half-mad and so scared, you were the one I called. And you came, Stanley, you came! But instead of taking my chance to make things right, I dismissed you. And when you - very rightly, I see in hindsight - took offense, I became furious. Our fight- that was my fault, too. All my life, I’ve thought that I knew everything. But I never understood that a guy like Stanley Pines - a guy who’s there for you a hundred percent, in spite of everything - comes along once in a lifetime.”

Ford looks over at Stan, who’s watching him with bright eyes. “Stan took care of me, all our lives. I miss him, so much, and what I want more than anything is the chance to tell him that, and to tell him how sorry I am, for everything. But if you don’t want those memories back, I understand. I really do. I’ve been selfish for a long time. What I need to do now is think about what you want. What do you want, Stanley?”

The answer comes quicker than Ford expected. “I don’t know. I’m afraid. I know, right here,” he points to his chest, “that those memories will hurt. And I’m scared - I’m so happy right now, with the kids, the Shack. What if I remember and ruin everything? And I know you miss him, but to be honest Stan Pines sounds like a trainwreck.” Stan smiles a little, and Ford can’t help but mirror it. 

“He kind of is,” Ford says. “But I love him. Everyone does. It’s just... Stan.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda gettin’ that impression.” Stan nods. “So... I really don’t know what I want, but... I know what _he’d_ want.”

“To forget,” Ford says, voice trembling. “To start fresh.”

Stan makes a face. “You really are the world’s smartest idiot, aren’t you? That guy spent his whole life wanting to be with his brother. You think he’d stop now, when that’s finally what you want too? You’d think he’d start over, knowing it was killing you?”

“He - he should,” Ford stammers. “He ought to think of himself, finally.”

“Well, he wouldn’t,” Stan snaps. “He didn’t let those bullies make fun of you when you were kids, and he didn’t let you rot in whatever weirdo dimension you bumbled around in, and he didn’t let you sell yourself to that creepy triangle demon, and he’s sure as hell not going to watch you blubber over _him_!”

“Stan,” Ford whispers. “Is that-”

“Just, just gimme a minute,” Stan grumbles, closing his eyes and covering his ears.

“No, look at me,” Ford moves to kneel in front of his brother, taking his hands. “Stanley, look at me. What do you remember?”

Stan opens his eyes, but they’re glazed, distracted. “I remember... I remember a boat. It’s a piece of crap and it can’t be seaworthy, but I love it. I remember a room - there’s our handprints on the wall! It’s our room! I remember,” he closes his eyes again, and Ford knows the bad memories are rolling through Stan’s mind, and he squeezes his hands.

“Go on,” he encourages, “Please Stanley, tell me.”

“I remember your science fair project - it was an accident, I swear! I swear!” Stan blinks, eyes wide.

“I believe you,” Ford says. “I know you wouldn’t sabotage me on purpose, Stanley, I know that now. I was just a stupid kid then, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I remember Dad throwing me out, telling me I couldn’t come back until I was a millionaire. I remember sleeping in my car, doing odd jobs to make enough money to eat. I remember being so lonely, missing you and Mom and Shermie and even Dad.”

Ford nods, unable to speak, but Stan continues. “I remember - God, I remember lots of stuff. All my scams. Prison. Sleeping in shitty motels at the best of times. Not having anyone - no one in the world caring where I was, if I was okay. And then - and then! I got your postcard! And I was so happy, because I thought maybe-” Stan sighs. “But - I was wrong.”

Stan won’t meet Ford’s eyes now, and Ford debates interrupting him, throwing himself on Stan’s mercy, begging him to _stop_ , because nothing can be worth this. Stan was right, it was better when he didn’t remember. It was cruel of Ford to make him - the latest in a long, long line of sins.

But Stan goes on. “I remember our fight. I remember you going into the portal, screaming, _screaming_ at me to help you, to do something. And I tried! I swear, I tried! But I couldn’t start it up again. I remember...”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, Ford thinks that’s it. That’s the last thing Stan can bring himself to recall, and he’s almost glad. 

“Okay,” Stan says, quietly. “Okay. I think it’s all there now. I think - I think I’m back.”

Silence falls. Ford feels sick, dizzy, and he clings to Stan’s hands like a lifeline. Stan still won’t meet his eyes, and Ford knows that in a moment, he’ll pull away, the wall will fall between them again, and he doesn’t know how to stop it but he can’t, he _can’t_ , let it happen. Not again.

“Stanley,” he chokes out, thick and abrupt in the silence.

And Stan looks up, like he’s waiting for some kind of judgement, and Ford knows that this is it. His last chance. He can make things right now or he can let Stan go forever, and the words pour out before he even has time to measure them.

“Stanley,” he says, “Stanley, _thank you_. Thank you, Stanley, for everything. I’m so, so grateful for you, for all you’ve done for me, since we were kids. You’ve always, always been there for me. You’re the best brother a guy could have.”

And maybe it’s not enough, maybe Stanley deserves more, but it’s all Ford has to give him, and he means it with all his heart. 

And Stanley smiles. 

“Jeez, finally. Was that so hard?” he grumbles, and Ford’s arms are around him before he can blink. 

“Thank you, Stanley,” Ford says one more time into Stan’s shoulder, because Stan deserves to hear it. 

And slowly, slowly, Stan brings his arms up around his brother, and sighs, like he’s finally home after a long day. “You’re welcome, Sixer. You’re welcome.”

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> After everything, I needed Stan to get his thank you. He deserved it.


End file.
